A soft, melodic piece of music is picked out on the piano keys; softly hammered, almost seeming as if plucked, on stretched steel wires in the piano case. Tones continue to resonate through the sounding board as the dampened vibrations are deftly evoked at the pianist's touch. There is no discordancy. Reflective, not determinedly marching along, and delicate against the sounds of a muted orchestra. I am listening as I compose this. I guess it was composed in the classical way, with beginnings and endings conforming to the concerto form. Even, may be an English or German composer, no doubt more recently from the last century.
Unlike the repetition of centuries-old drawing room entertainment, it is modern in rhythm with a few syncopated beats. It seems to meander along like a brook after a soft rain early in November in temperate regions. The notes pick out colorful leaves; some damply desiccated with a mildewed underside, ground cover in a oak and elm woods. Perhaps one can smell the musty liveliness of the fungal spores perched on stumps, and the rotting vegetation when scuffled along the forest floor.
But, mildew in itself is a form of life that takes its sustenance from once-living concepts like leaves, and re-creates life in another form.
Then, the composer changes the mood, and the tune scurries along like a little field-mouse lugging acorns, and seeds of maples to an underground den. Quickly now, chipmunks and squirrels are out also, still looking to increase winter stores. And, then the piece is over and audience clapping.
The radio announcer the name of the piece. By Dmitri Shostakovich, piano concerto no. 2 was composed in 1957 for a son's 19th birthday. What a marvelous use of talent. Wouldn't it be wonderful to possess such skill in creating the lasting artistic expression in honor of one's child?
Presumably not an example of Shostakovich's typical heavy stuff, it seems even a bit cheerful in my imagination for Russian music. Despite the birthday celebration in May, the piece is a tribute to naturalism and well-suited to a day in November. Maybe, I'm thinking so as the heater has just kicked on, and it's threatening to rain on this November day.
I'm not a music aficionado. I love music, but the notes go in and out my ears, and nothing is retained. Merely the memory of enjoyment in the moment. However, I am not totally clueless. I can recognize a piece of music I've heard before despite not being able to recreate the tune without a 'cheat sheet'.
I have a friend who says her husband knows the words of all the popular music but sings it all in the same the tune...something like 'Old McDonald'. I am fortunate to possess a somewhat similar talent, but more oftenly there it is a tuneless rendition if the words are in front of me.
I was a member of my church choir to help lend support to my sister's singing talent. Although she sat next to me, she was careful not to get too close. We were altos, and sang right in front of the tenors, and in back of the sopranos. Because Martha Hall, and later Mr. Shirey played the organ so masterfully, I don't think anyone caught on that I sang everyone's parts at the same time, until I was 'promoted' to the position of page-turner for Ms. Hall.
I guess the special ability doesn't need to be held to such high regard and threateningly over my head--as I cannot recreate the Mona Lisa in great detail either from memory, and consider myself artistic to a degree. For that matter, memorization skills elude me. I cannot remember poems beyond snatches of the onomatopoeic elements.
Throughout my life there have been school memorization assignments.
In second grade, there was the childrens rhyme about squirrels, "whisky, frisky, hippity hop, up he goes to the treetop, whirly, twirly round and round, down he scampers to the ground, dadedada dadeda .... broad as a sail, and that's it! I could not and still to this day cannot recall another word.
In primary school I backed out of performing Robert Louis Stevenson's poem about swinging with Mary Edith Kallenberg, instead dancing the Mexican Hat Dance with another group. Mary E. had no problem memorizing the three poem verses, but my mind stopped after " How do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing ever a child can do". That's all that I could accomplish with recalling words in a particular order.
Mary Edith took the brunt of memorization of that poem and if there was a prize for a solo project, surely she deserved it. Later, in leaving for college, marrying, and moving far away I did not keep up with her or any other childhood contacts, except for a best friend who moved to Georgia. I wonder if Mary has remained a single career woman all these years, perhaps a lawyer, or writer, or historian. As an intellectual, if she did marry, it's hard to imagine her potty-training toddlers and attempting to reasoning with her own teen-agers.
My sons have the ability, especially evident in the younger one, to retain aural conjectures and transmit them accurately as memorized snatches. Heck not merely snatches. I've heard my younger one practice violin concertos as he wanders from room to room, pausing to look at a picture in an open book, gaze out the window, and put on his shoes (an exaggeration!). The music can probably be compared to that played on stringed extension of the human voice. After all, people can shower and sing at the same time.
Sometimes I wonder if the musicality is something inherited from their father, and other times I imagine the skill is an ability to clothe oneself in a particular musical experience, so as to make it part of one's persona.
I recall when my little one was playing a solo at 5 or younger. In the audience front row, I was so nervous for him that I was tapping the rhythm with my foot audibly to him. During a break, he whispered, 'Mom, don't tap your foot, I can't hear myself. Besides, what do you think about how it would look when I am in a concert hall, and my mother is in the front row tapping her foot?"
When I used to encourage my younger son's many musical performances, I tried to give him good advice, advice that held a reliably generic truth not to set him up for impossible standards. (Over the years, until he played for gigs in high school, his only monetary reward for playing was the reception afterward sure to have some of his favorite sweets, although that was not an incentive after his symphony debut at age 9!). My advice always was to relax and play the piece from his soul or being, and not worry about notes. After sufficient exercise, rehearsal and a good nights rest, at the moment of performance, in that slot of time in all the world it was his piece, to do with as he willed and express it in his own way.
I know it's personally selfish, i.e. for my own enjoyment, but no doubt others would find comfort and beauty in his music performance. I hope that someday this young musician finds a way to contentment and returns to performances, if only for himself, family, and friends.
My older son's interests are in other fields, and his great talent is summarization of difficult topics for teaching others. Someday, he will find the perfect way to use that skill and enjoy his work. I am confident in that. Sometimes, it takes more time than anticipated, as each of us travel our own time-lines.
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